And Thou No Breath At All
by AragornofRedwall
Summary: Grief is a strange thing.
1. Chapter 1

And Thou No Breath At All

_**POV: **Martin_

Tears streamed unbidden down his cheeks, his face in his left hand, as his right clung to a handful of freshly turned earth. After eighty years, she was gone, gone beyond recall or healing, and his heart was utterly shattered. He knelt there by her grave and wept.

Grief is a strange thing. It makes one so terribly tired. Whatever strength he had left was taken by the sobs he could not control. Rain drizzled down as if the heavens themselves shared in his pain. Soaked through to the bone, he would probably contract some nasty illness. He cared not.

His beloved daughter was dead. Einan. Einan, dead. The words sounded wrong, they didn't belong together, didn't belong near each other. The two concepts were utterly alien. Einan, so full of life and love and beauty. Dead. The words repeated themselves in his head over and over again. This must be some nightmare, some hideous, foul, cursed spell. This simply could not be real, could not be true. It was too awful to be real, too terrible to be true. No, no, no. It must be some heinous lie, some hoax, some horrid trick played by an imp with a bad sense of humour. This was too cruel, too, too cruel.

Wiping the tears away with the back of his hand, he glared hatefully at the sight before him. There was her grave. Grave. Graves, where the corpses of the dead reside. Before they buried it, he had seen her body: lifeless, joyless, empty, and cold. How? How could this be so? His eyes must be lying to him. He ought to pluck them out for playing such a prank as this.

As if from another world, the words of the poem broke through the fog and forced themselves in amidst his thoughts.

"When from Love's shining circle the Gems drop away, when true hearts lie withered, and fond ones are flown, who would inhabit this bleak world alone?"

He let out a strangled scream and a curse and a shout, and the tears returned once more.

* * *

Some time later, he knew not how long, he heard a voice and felt a hand placed softly on his shoulder.

"Grandfather?"

He couldn't move. Couldn't turn his head. Even the tears were gone now. Only his grief remained. Cloth rustled as his granddaughter knelt beside him, her own voice cracking in sorrow.

"Grandfather, look at me."

Blinking the rainwater from his eyes, he stared at the sodden ground beneath him as if in a daze. She spoke again:

"We do not mourn as those who are without assurance."

"No," he replied. "No. But we still mourn."

She hugged him and the tears came again.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ The title is, of course, a reference to King Lear: "Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, and thou no breath at all?"

The poem quoted is "The Last Rose of Summer," by Thomas Moore.

The granddaughter's comforting sentence is 1st Thessalonians, Chapter 4, Verse 13.

I haven't given up on Knight of the Vial; the hope is to post the completed story within the next fortnight.


	2. Chapter 2

_**POV: **Martin_

A week after her funeral, I returned to Einan's grave with a bouquet of roses. The weather was far more pleasant than it had been. The day was clear but not over-warm. We buried her next to Rheneas, her husband of many decades, atop a cliff overlooking the Great Eastern Ocean. A pleasant, gentle sea breeze brushed across my face as I dismounted. When I reached her grave, I placed the roses there and my mind turned back to the first time we picked flowers together, wandering gaily through the gardens at Cair Paravel. The memory of her giggling, running, a great big grin on her face, brought laughter to my lips. But then the memory of her final days, frail, wracked with pain and confined to her bed, returned unbidden and flooded my heart once more with sorrow. I knelt and wept.

Feeling a soft, sudden warmth on my face, I looked up from the ground and saw a familiar pair of eyes. Mouth open, bathing me in His warm breath, was Aslan. From the moment His breath touched me I felt at peace. The pain was still there, but I bore it with renewed strength. Blinking the tears from my eyes, I asked:

"Why?"

Though I could say no more, He knew what I meant. Pain, grief, sorrow, suffering, all the terrible ills of this weary world which groans under their weight.

"Oh, Adam's son, this is Adam's curse which comes from Adam's fall. But do not despair, for I am the Second Adam, and I make all things new."

"And Einan?"

"She rejoices in my country, dancing with her husband and so many others whom she mourned long ago."

"Then death no longer holds any terror. But having no victory, why, then, does it still sting?"

"That is the nature of the curse, Beloved. If you were chopping wood, and accidentally cut off your arm or leg, would it not hurt?"

"Of course."

In my country, your arm would be restored. You would be whole and hale and strong, totally and completely renewed. Would that undo the loss of your limb or the pain you felt when you severed it?"

"No. No, I suppose not."

"I cannot keep you from suffering, Dear One. That is the consequence of the curse. But you do not mourn alone, Beloved."

His large, golden eyes brimmed with tears as He said:

"I know, oh how well I know, that grief is great."

I stepped over to Him, and He hugged me close to His mane, and we wept together.

* * *

_**A/N: **_"For the tawny face was bent down near his own and (wonder of wonders) great shining tears stood in the Lion's eyes. They were such big, bright tears compared with Digory's own that for a moment he felt as if the Lion must really be sorrier about his Mother than he was himself.

'My son, my son,' said Aslan. 'I know. Grief is great.'"

-The Magician's Nephew, 154.


End file.
